Your gaze moves
in metronomic pulses over that monodimensional harem:
Larry Flint's paper doll collection
smiling down from this
ramshackle shrine to the almighty tit.
Flickering midnight messengers project
wet dream double-features into the furrowed melanoma
of our rabid leather resting place.
Our love story is so many 2 AM
migraines and the pungent orgy of a bottlecap menagerie.
Resting proudly in the center of our
circuitboard cathedral like Adam's toppled
altar to civil engineering.
A rich and dare I say tangy
history of pubescent self-discovery stains the
leather with libidinous ectoplasm.
These, the spirits of wasted potential
long to etch
rough facsimiles of deer into your undisturbed stratigraphy.
And now, while plastic percussion
(heartfelt if not hesitant)
holds the silence at bay with its familiar monotone
(eager if not erratic),
posses of codependent dust particles gather to mimic the layers of
lethargic February behind the technicolour
translucence of $10 drapery.
Our love story is typed instead
of written and it's the piled skeletons of sacrificial pizza crusts putting
Aztecs to shame since a day in early autumn
which I can never recall.
of written and it's the piled skeletons of sacrificial pizza crusts putting
Aztecs to shame since a day in early autumn
which I can never recall.
